Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

Harry closed his eyes and felt his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs.

By the time Harry had fought his way through to the path, the man had long been swallowed up by the darkness. Harry slid out the magazine of the MP5 and checked. As he thought. In a sudden bout of fury he hurled the weapon in the air and it rose like an ugly black bird in front of the Plaza Hotel before falling and landing with a gentle splash in the black water beneath him.

When Halvorsen arrived Harry was sitting in the snow with a cigarette between his lips.

Halvorsen was bent double, holding his knees, his chest heaving. 'Christ, you can run,' he wheezed. 'Gone?'

'Vanished,' Harry said. 'Let's go back.'

'Where's the MP5?'

'Didn't you just ask me that?'

Halvorsen looked at Harry and decided not to dig any further.

Two police cars stood in front of the Hostel with blue lights flashing. A crowd of shivering men with long lenses protruding from their chests were thronging outside the front door, which was obviously locked. Harry and Halvorsen walked down Heimdalsgata. Halvorsen was finishing a conversation on his mobile.

'Why do I always think of the queue for a porn film when I see that?' Harry said.

'Journalists,' Halvorsen said. 'How did they get wind of this?'

'Ask the whelp on the walkie-talkie,' Harry said. 'My guess is he let the cat out of the bag. What did they say in the Ops Room?'

'They're sending all available patrol cars to the river at once. Uniformed Division is sending a dozen foot soldiers. What do you think?'

'He's good. They'll never find him. Call Beate and ask her to come.'

One of the journalists had spotted them and came over.

'Well, Harry?'

'You're up late, Gjendem.'

'What's going on?'

'Not a great deal.'

'Oh? I see someone has shot out the windscreen of one of your police cars.'

'Who says someone didn't hit it with a stick?' Harry said, with the journalist still trotting after him.

'The officer sitting in there. He says he was shot at.'

'Christ, I'd better have a word with him,' Harry said. 'Excuse me, gentlemen!'

The throng moved aside with grudging reluctance and Harry knocked on the front door. There was a clicking and buzzing of cameras and flashes.

'Is there any connection between this and the murder in Egertorget?' one of the journalists shouted. 'Is the Salvation Army involved?'

The door opened a crack and the driver's face came into view. He stepped back, and Harry and Halvorsen pushed through. They walked through reception where the young policeman was sitting in a chair staring into space with vacant eyes while a colleague crouched in front of him, speaking in a low voice.

On the floor above, the door to room 26 was still open.

'Touch as little as possible,' Harry said to the driver. 'Beate Lonn's sure to want fingerprints and DNA.'

They cast around, opened cupboard doors and peeked under the bed.

'Jeez,' Halvorsen said. 'Not a single thing. The guy had only what he was standing up in.'

'He must have had a suitcase or something to bring the gun into the country,' Harry said. 'He may have got rid of it of course. Or put it somewhere for safekeeping.'

'There aren't that many left-luggage places in Oslo any more.'

'Think.'

'Right. The luggage room in one of the hotels where he was staying. The lockers in Oslo Central Station of course.'

'Follow the line of thought.'

'Which line?'

'He's out there now and has a bag somewhere.'

'He might need it now, yes. I'll ring Ops and get someone sent to Scandia and the station and… what was the other hotel that had Stankic on their lists?'

'Radisson SAS in Holbergs plass.'

'Thank you.'

Harry turned to the driver and asked if he wanted to go out and have a smoke. They went down and out of the back door. On the snow-covered handkerchief of a garden in the quiet backyard an old man was standing and smoking while contemplating the dirty yellow sky, oblivious of their presence.

'How's your colleague?' Harry asked, lighting both of their cigarettes.

'He'll survive. Sorry about the reporters.'

'It's not your fault.'

'Yes, it is. When he called me on the radio he said someone had entered the Hostel. I should have drilled things like that into him.'

'There were a couple of other things you should have drilled more.'

The driver's eyes shot up. And blinked twice, in quick succession. 'I apologise. I tried to warn you, but you ran off.'

'OK. But why?'

The glow of the cigarette lit up, red and reproachful, as the driver sucked hard. 'Most criminals give up the second they have an MP5 pointing at them.'

'That wasn't what I asked.'

The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed. 'It's an old story.'

'Mm.' Harry regarded the policeman. 'We've all got old stories to tell. That doesn't mean we can put colleagues' lives at risk with empty magazines.'

'You're right.' The man dropped the half-smoked cigarette and it disappeared into the fresh snow with a hiss. He took a deep breath. 'And you won't get into any trouble about it, Hole. I'll confirm your report.'

Harry shifted weight. Studied his cigarette. He put the policeman's age at about fifty. There weren't so many of them left in patrol cars. 'The old story, is it one I would like to hear?'

'You've heard it before.'

'Mm. Young lad?'

'Twenty-two, no previous.'

'Killed?'

'Paralysed from the chest down. I hit him in the stomach, but the bullet went right through.'

The old man coughed. Harry looked across. He was holding the cigarette between two matches.

In reception the young officer was still sitting on the chair being comforted. Harry motioned with his head for the sympathetic colleague to withdraw and sank down onto his haunches.

'Trauma counselling doesn't help,' Harry said to the wan young man. 'Sort yourself out.'

'Eh?'

'You're frightened because you think you were a shot away from dying. You weren't. He wasn't aiming at you. He aimed at the car.'

'Eh?' the whelp repeated in the same monotone.

'This guy's a pro. He knows that if he had shot a policeman he wouldn't have had a hope of getting away. He fired to frighten you.'

'How do you know…?'

'He didn't fire at me, either. You tell yourself that and you'll be able to sleep. And don't go to a psychologist; there are other people who need them.' Harry's knees gave a nasty crack as he stood up. 'And remember that higher ranked officers are by definition cleverer than you. So, next time, follow orders, OK?'

His heart was beating like a hunted animal's. A gust of wind caught the lamps hanging from the thin wires above the street and his shadow danced across the pavement. He wished he could take longer strides, but because of the ice's slippery surface he had to keep his legs beneath him as far as possible.

It must have been the telephone call to Zagreb from the office that had led the police to the Hostel. And it had happened at such speed! As a result he would not be able to call her. He heard a car coming from behind and had to force himself not to turn round. Instead he listened. It hadn't braked so far. It passed by, followed by a rush of air and a flurry of powdery snow that settled on the tiny strip of neck not covered by the blue jacket, the jacket that the policeman had seen him wearing and meant he was no longer invisible. He had considered discarding the jacket, but a man in a shirt would not only look suspicious but would also freeze to death. He glanced at his watch. There were quite a few hours before the town came to life, before cafes and shops opened where he could find refuge. He had to find somewhere before then. A bolt-hole, a place where he could keep warm and rest until day broke.